They Both Die at the End

I started They Both Die at the End knowing the title spoils the end, which freed me to notice the day. Adam Silvera published it September 5, 2017 with HarperTeen. The hardcover runs 384 pages. It opens the Death-Cast series. I read it in one long day with my phone face down, which felt right for a book about calls.

Death-Cast calls between midnight and 3 a.m. to tell you today is your last day. No cause given. No time given. Just a nudge to settle and say goodbye. Most people live with it like weather. Some rage. Some hide. Mateo Torrez, eighteen, hides. He lives with his father in a small apartment, father in a coma after an accident, best friend Lidia pregnant and scared, Mateo agoraphobic in all but name, playing games, counting pills, avoiding stairs. When Death-Cast calls at 2:22 a.m., he freezes, then posts on the Last Friend app for someone to be with so he does not die alone.

Rufus Emeterio, seventeen, fights. Bisexual, Puerto Rican and Cuban, in foster care after his family died, living with the Plutos, a tight foster crew. He gets his call mid beating of his ex's new boyfriend, then gets arrested, then bailed by friends who throw him a living funeral with drums and hugs. He also posts on Last Friend, more from bravado than fear. The app pairs them. Two strangers. One day. New York.

One day in the city

Their day runs from dawn to midnight across subways, parks, diners, hospitals, arcades, beaches. Silvera writes in short alternating chapters with time stamps, plus brief cuts to side people. A nurse, a driver, a diner cook, a tourist, a suicide jumper they talk down, a girl whose Instagram they crash kindly. Those cuts show ripples. A delayed train saves a life. A kind word reroutes a plan. The city feels full and close, not backdrop.

Mateo loosens first in small ways. He leaves the apartment without three checks. He rides a bike. He sings badly at karaoke. He visits his father in hospital and says goodbye out loud, then says I love you to Lidia and means it as friend love that holds. He tells Rufus about his mother who died giving birth to him, a fact he carries like fault. Rufus listens without fixing, which is the book's best skill. Listening.

Rufus softens in other ways. He stops performing tough for the Plutos. He calls his foster mom to apologize. He visits his ex Olivia to close kindly, not to win back. He admits he is scared of water after his family's crash, then gets on a boat anyway with Mateo's hand near. He takes photos of strangers to leave something. His humor stays, dry and warm. You suck at dancing. Good thing dying first is not a contest. Those jokes keep grief breathable.

Dares structure the middle. They make lists of things they avoided. Mateo wants to travel though he fears leaving. Rufus wants to say sorry though pride blocks. They do both badly and joyfully. They eat pancakes at odd hours. They visit the Cloisters. They lie on grass naming clouds. They change clothes in stores to feel new. They hold hands to cross streets, then keep holding because it steadies. Romance grows without rush. A forehead touch. A shared jacket. A kiss near midnight that feels like promise and goodbye at once. Silvera writes queer teen tenderness with care. No tragedy because gay. Tragedy because Death-Cast called, same as anyone.

Side threads add weight. Lidia, Mateo's friend, labors toward birth while grieving him early. The Plutos throw Rufus a farewell with music and food, then wait up. A man named Howie bullies on the app and learns fast that cruelty finds echoes. A jumper on a bridge chooses to step back after Mateo talks, not with speeches but with true lines about fear. Those saves matter because the main deaths still come. Kindness does not cheat the call. It fills hours before it.

How the call works

Silvera never explains Death-Cast tech, and that restraint helps. No science lecture. Just culture. Alerts, apps, funerals by noon, travel deals for Enders, clubs for last nights, makeup artists for last photos. Some protest it as scam. Most plan around it. Mateo's dad cannot answer because he is unconscious, a loophole that aches. Does the call count if you miss it. The book lets that ache sit.

Fear reads differently in each boy. Mateo fears the world will hurt him before death does. Rufus fears he wasted time hurting others. Both learn the same lesson from opposite sides. Go outside. Say sorry. Try. Their growth is not becoming fearless. It is acting while scared. Mateo rides the subway standing up. Rufus sits still and cries. Both count as brave.

The end keeps its promise. I will not detail mechanics to leave some sting, but both die as told, one in accident tied to the other's grief, the other in the time and place foreshadowed by small choices. It hurts. It also feels right because the day was full. They meet Lidia's baby by video. They tell Plutos they love them. They say I love you to each other without hedging. Midnight comes with rain and quiet, not spectacle.

What lands and limits

What lands is voice. Mateo's careful lists. Rufus's blunt jokes. Texts with typos. Photos described fast. New York smells of rain, fries, subway heat. Pacing holds for 384 pages because chapters are short and clocks tick. You turn to beat midnight even knowing you cannot.

What limits. Some side cuts feel like lessons inserted. A driver learns to call his daughter. A cook learns to tip kindly. True, but neat. Death-Cast logic wobbles if poked. Why no cause. Why no errors shown. Why society still functions. If you need hard sci fi, this is soft. It is romance with a high concept clock, not systems novel.

I closed it tearful and oddly calm. Not because death felt fine. Because a full day with attention felt like a life in miniature. Try a food. Forgive a friend. Tell the truth. Hold a hand. Silvera does not say dying gives meaning. He says noticing does, whether you got the call or not. For a 2017 YA book that launched a series, that is a lot to give in one city day. Bring tissues, charge your phone, text someone you love before midnight. You do not need Death-Cast to practice.

Lidia, Plutos, and last errands

Lidia deserves more than best friend slot because she carries tomorrow. Pregnant, young, scared, she loves Mateo like brother and plans to raise her baby with his memory if he falls. She brings him food, charges his phone, tells him to live his last day instead of guarding the couch. When he leaves, she cleans his apartment so his father will return to order, not mess. Her labor false starts while he is out, a parallel clock to his countdown. Their video goodbye, her belly high, his eyes wet, is the book's most parental scene though neither is parent yet. Care across fear.

The Plutos, Rufus's foster crew, show chosen family at work. Malcolm and Tagoe joke, fight, forgive fast. Aimee mothers with food and rules. They throw Rufus a living funeral with drums in the living room, each saying what they would say at a grave while he can hear. That scene broke me open. Praise while alive. No eulogy after. Rufus sulks, then softens, then drums back. When he leaves for his day, they track his phone, send memes, wait up past midnight. Their grief after will be loud and shared, unlike Mateo's quieter circle. Both forms count.

Last errands structure the day with meaning, so list them with care. Mateo visits his father in hospital, holds a still hand, says sorry for needing so much, thanks nurses by name. He closes his bank account to leave Lidia money, a practical love. He donates clothes. Rufus visits Olivia to apologize for jealous rage, meets her new boyfriend with grace, fixes a door he once slammed. He calls his foster worker to say the home helped. He photographs strangers to leave art behind. Together they visit a World Travel Arena to fake trip abroad, ride VR rides, eat unfamiliar foods, get tattoos that will outlast them by hours. Each errand is small. Together they say we were here and we tried to leave clean.

The jumper on the bridge needs a final note for hope without cheat. Mateo and Rufus, heading to say goodbye to the city lights, find a man ready to jump who did not get a call but wants out from debt and shame. They do not preach. They sit. They share fries. They tell him today is their last day and they still want an hour more. He steps back. He lives. That rescue does not save them. It saves him, and the book lets that stand as enough. One life extended while two wind down. Math that feels like mercy, not irony.

Phones and apps get sharp satire here worth naming. Last Friend matches Enders for profit. Death-Cast sells peace of mind that terrifies daily. Instagram mourns strangers for likes. News vans chase Enders for ratings. Silvera shows tech feeding on fear without turning preachy. Mateo turns his phone off for stretches to hear pigeons. Rufus leaves voice notes instead of texts to keep warmth. Those small rebellions suggest use tools, do not serve them, even on the last day.

Time stamps and side lives

Time stamps give the book its pulse, so notice them. Chapters mark hours from just after midnight calls to noon meetings to night rides. Morning is for fear and logistics. Close bank accounts. Charge phones. Pack bags. Afternoon is for dares and joy. Karaoke, beaches, bikes. Evening is for goodbyes. Hospitals, homes, rooftops. Midnight is for truth. No chapter wastes its hour. Silvera keeps clocks visible so readers feel time shorten even during laughs. That pressure makes pancakes taste better and hugs last longer.

Side lives flash by in one page cuts that reward reread. A nurse who delays a shift to hold a hand and misses a crash. A driver who takes a longer route and avoids a pileup. A tourist who gives up a seat and meets a future spouse. A cook who comped Enders breakfast and gets a kind review that saves his shop. None of these people know Mateo and Rufus names. All are bent by their day. The point is not fate as machine. It is city as web. Pull one thread at dawn and someone sleeps safer at night.

Fear of water and heights threads both boys in ways worth naming. Rufus lost family in water and avoids boats. Mateo lost nerve for streets and avoids crowds. Each lends the other courage without curing phobia. Rufus boards a ferry because Mateo asks and holds the rail white knuckled. Mateo crosses a bridge on foot because Rufus sings through steps. Neither calls it therapy. Both count it as gift. That mutual aid models friendship better than rescue. Go with, not for.

The Last Friend app itself gets gentle satire. Profiles with pics, bios, ratings. Dean, the app maker, posts tips for good last days that sound like travel blogs. Howie trolls Enders for clout. Moderators ban fast but not fast enough. Mateo and Rufus game it by being honest. Scared. Want company. No hookup pitch. Their honesty draws kindness from strangers who offer rides, meals, songs. The app profits off loneliness, Silvera suggests, but people inside can still choose tenderness over transaction. Use the tool. Be the human.